


Paper plans

by Radiolaria



Series: Mauvais Genre [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Adventure, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mountains, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River is falling, awful fast, and the wind is howling –as is Idris who is tired of seeing her best pilot losing her best airplanes.</p><p>1930s, Air mailing AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merryghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryghoul/gifts).



> Being no mountaineer, pilot, or baby of the 1900s, I might have let slip some mistakes, despite the research. They are mine alone.
> 
> Big thank you to Wil for the fearless proofreading.
> 
> Comments:  
> -Artur de Sacadura Freire Cabral and Carlos Viegas Gago Coutinho were the first pilots to cross the South Atlantic Ocean in 1922.  
> -In aeronautics, spoilers are little plates on wings used to reduce lift.  
> - _Mellonta tauta_ means "things of the future, that are to happen".

“Santiago?”

From the other end of the line came Idris’ voice, stretched and chopped by the faulty transmission.

“Closed. Storm coming at you.”

River gritted her teeth, eyeing suspiciously the threatening cloud before her. Underneath, the sharp edges and peaks were soaring through the fog bank. Teeth and claws waiting for her to fall and be torn to shreds.

“Back to Bahia Blanca then? San Rafael?”

“Stuck.”

 “They’re coming at us in swarm now?” She banged her hands against the panel in frustration. The cabin vibrated in response, faithful but useless, almost comforting.

“Waldo can hear you, north west-west. You mustn’t be that far from his lookout.”

“Yeah? I can’t see him, it’s a muck out of Hell’s mouth down there. I could not even tell if I saw Maipo. I have no bloody idea where I am, Idris. Nuts!”

Manometers and altimeters started behaving. She was beginning to fly through some turbulence. So far, she had kept her head out of it, flying nearly blind, but relatively safe. But as the higher faces of the ridges were lining by her side, the clouds and wind were getting trapped with her, forcing her down and up and down.

“Here she goes.” River muttered under her breath. She gripped tighter the commands, eyes glued to the hands oscillating before her. She lurched against the seat, locking horn with the air. In vain.

“Calling Vertex, calling Vertex”, Idris started, monotonous in her call.

“Go ahead Idris”, she gnarled between gritted teeth.

“Song, what was that?”

“It looks like I’ll have to quit cruising around till it clears down. I can’t recover.” She gave the command a last tug, eyed glued to the fateful hands. “Downdrafts, darling.”

The engines were running, steady, but she had no grip on the air anymore, she felt the three tons of zinc and metal sink with her. Hands on the joystick, knuckles white, she braced herself against the seat, and the sound of leather crisp in the coldness, combined with the deafening whirr of the engines giving in to the wind, fired her nerves. Vertex was dozing off, growing soft and limp as if the strings pulling her had snapped.

One.

“11,500. 11,000.”

By one.

“10,500. 10,000”

“Don’t lose this one, please. We’re not getting new planes before late 1939, if the war doesn’t break out”, Idris dryly said before groaning. “Pull her up! Just pull her up!”

“Not a cinch. The wind’s whacky up there.”

“Then slow down. You’re coming in too low. Vertex doesn’t have the rate of climb to get out.”

“Maybe I ought to give it a go. I’ve been at it for hours. What have I got left? An hour of fuel at most. And Waldo certainly can’t take me by this weather.”

The plane jolted backwards, nose lifting. 

“What this time?” Rang the cry of Idris.

“Slope. I’m down.” She checked the altimeter, below 10,000 feet.

_How on earth did she end up here?_

_At least she was out of the fog,_ she thought. “I _might_ pull it off. Coming down.”

There was some heavy stuff piled up in the valley and she dragged her plane for a mile, recovered and began drawing circle, before a loud splash beat her stop, cabin tipped off and soaked.

“Don’t tell me that was water.” Idris was grating her teeth. “Get out.”

“T'was a pond. I hit the bottom. Signing off.”

 

***

 

She had extracted herself from the cockpit and paddled away from the plane. The ghastly sound of water rushing into the cockpit, the gurgle and creaking of the aircraft followed her on solid ground. Her shoes were weighed down, swallowed by the mud, sockets of iron and trousers of ice. She hated water; quickest way to choke and being buried.

Her knees found the ground with a loud, lonely thud, while she let go of her bag.

The sucking sound welled up behind her; she pivoted, dropped to the ground, legs tucked up, hands crossed before her. As the plane stopped sinking, the tail and cabin settled above the surface, still afloat, pristine white reflected on the dark surface.

“I just cleaned her”, she commented, mind blank.

She was alive. At least. And the mail was there. Not too soaked, probably. Just there, in the cabin, upside down and refrigerated. Except she would not risk loading herself.

She considered the bottom of the valley she had landed in, corked at the top by the fog. She could not see an inch of sky. East and west the walls were climbing fast and high, while the north was gently disappearing in the white. Practically no vegetation of course. Rocks and air. Vague ochre and dense whiteness.

In a way, it reassured her. She felt exposed and raw under an open sky, and fear kept her awake. This almost felt like being back in her cell.

She would have to wait for the sun to rise just above the edge of the mountain before spotting a familiar landmark, Waldo’s lookout.

But the sight of Vertex partially under water stunned her; she was fated to be cast in ice as soon as winter came. And stay there. A Lagoda’s end. No one would come and pick her up here –she was an old bird, nearly as old as her, put together again and again, strained and crashed and re-floated and with far too many free falls under her belt. Her faithful companion, knocked down at last.

Behind the long metallic tail, the walls rose, naked, mineral, wind-worn, attrition-hit, treacherous. Baleful in its nakedness. As if Earth had coughed until its ribs had stuck out. Morning was barely stretching its light under the shadow of the peaks, sides bare of snow. January in the Andes could let her live.

She dozed off.

 

***

 

Around ten, she woke up, startled, muscles sore with cold and rocks, clothes still damp. At some point in her sleep, she had guessed the panting breath of engines aloft, but far, far above, where the wind was still howling. But the sound had grown faint, blending with the guitars and songs her dreams were lavishing on her. She surmised the skies. A thin layer of fog was still veiling the sun, lending a soft, even if unhelping, atmosphere to the valley; she was concealed from any rescue team leafing through. It had probably spread in to every valley nearby.

Enshrouding her.

She scrambled to her feet, decided to approach the situation calmly and as optimistically as possible. Waldo was close, Idris had said in the voice she hoped to be reassuring, but was snappy instead. At 10,000 feet, when the aircraft started behaving, her boss knew reassuring meant nothing. Snappy meant awareness and efficiency. A snappy Idris meant she had calculated and thought out and probably sent out a pilot to recover her by then. Idris had always done what was needed, despite the overflow of emotions and occasional attempt at heroism of her crew at the airline.

River’s job was to locate the lookout and not to freeze to death.

She was fumbling with the bag to fit on her back. Nothing here of help; a torch, a flask of water, biscuits, the bare -and light- necessities in case of emergency landing.  She had probably miles to go before finding the lookout.

She felt beleaguered, except within the walls. The valley was like a knocked-over funnel, her pond at the top, encased by two peaks.

She waited and walked, disoriented. The air was clear and the coldness bearable, but she feared the night coming and the immensity around.

Clouds of snow and mist and sand were unfurling in the air, as if stuck on the rock faces, flapping and mocking soundlessly her slow and uncertain progression. Her youth had witnessed lower mountains, with edges white and menacing. But Switzerland was a kind country compared to this wind-worn desert. Extra-terrestrial.

So absorbing was her dedication to put one foot before the other that she started thinking aloud, occupying the vast emptiness of the slopes climbing everywhere, and distracting herself from the pain in her left shoulder. Her makeshift backpack was digging rope-rough teeth in her flesh, despite her thick leather jacket.

She was rambling, a bit breathless from the descent and the altitude, recalling her last fight with Amelia, her landowner and the station’s cook. About marriage and settling down and life in general. Love had not even been mentioned. Amelia knew where River’s dedication lied and how she did not consider it lonely. It would have been like discussing the hardship of silent vows with a woman who heard nothing but voices in her retreat.

Amelia was pondering about whether or not to marry Rory, one of the company’s technicians, whom River appreciated a great deal. Her disagreement came from Amelia’s best friend and the company’s wonder boy, Enzo Art, who had enjoined her to marry the man, for all the wrong reasons.

“We are essentially alone in this world.” She remarked, idly, out loud.

“I’m very glad to hear it”, bellowed a voice behind her and she spun to catch the sight of a long silhouette against the dull sky on top of the edge she was descending.

_The idiot._

“You’re very welcome, Art, but I did not ask.”

She allowed her breath to steady as he half-slipped, half-strutted down towards her. Hair mushed and jacket opened, sporting the company’s uniform unlike her. The smell of sweat and cologne in the desert of fragrances unsettled her, when she hoped to find comfort. Each step was bringing him closer, his silly smile and browbeaten frame coming into focus. He had probably experienced a rough landing, judging by the state of his gloves and trousers, she noted. Meanwhile, he was taking note of the way she was studying him, and probably thinking out a way to tease her about it later.

He was a mad man, living for the adventure, the risk and the adrenaline, always willing to drag in and impress the newcomers. He craved adoration, his bonds to the Earth were strong though; he spent most of his time on the ground, meeting new people and travelling. Between the boats and the planes, the ever changing population of the coast, he had thousands of friends. Orphan, she knew, but there was a chance he had the biggest family in the Universe. She had never believed in binding herself so.

He hopped to her side, the clutter of his rucksack dangling and tinkling merrily –climbing equipment, obviously.

 _For Pete’s sake, here is my rescue mission,_ she thought.

“And pray tell me what you are doing here”, she coolly inquired, bringing her hands to her hips.

He clasped his hands and rubbed them together, lifting his non-existent eyebrows.

“I decided to follow up on your little note and visit you in your retreat.”

Though they had never exchanged a word since their formal introduction, years ago, they had made a habit of sending each other little notes via Amelia about his ‘inability to treat the technicians like a legal person’ and her ‘dreadful character and tendency to be a perfectly retrograde woman.’ His childish behaviour was the last thing she expected to find in the middle of the Andes.

“You’re lying”, she sneered.

“Of course I’m lying.” He answered, petulant. “The TARDIS dumped me here during the rescue mission.” He looked defeated though, and she suspected his plane had met a fate similar to hers, if not worse. Enzo Art was well-known for his strange, if not extraordinary aircraft, which he had entirely redesigned from a spare Laté 28. Jiggered and crossed with bargained Potez parts and other instruments of his inventions, he had managed to turn her into one of the most efficient airplanes of the company, though impossible to handle by anyone but him.

And barely perfectly by himself. He considered her his wife and named her the TARDIS, the ridiculous man.

“That’s not a very nice way to say ‘I missed you’”, she offered, aggressive smile and lips stretched. He would be rightfully upset by a crash-landing in the area. Out of a sentiment nearly identifiable as kindness but that she would not admit as anything but tolerance, she resigned to flirt with him.

He winced. The stiffness in his jaw had gone before she noticed it and he smiled, with contempt. He would play along all right.

“No, it’s not. Can I start over again?”

She rolled her eyes, pleased to have elicited what she deemed good enough banter for both of them to occupy hours of aimless walking.

“You really did send me a note just before taking off”, he added. His hands had disappeared in his pockets, despite his gloves. He had resumed the walk, inviting her with a nod.

“So I did. I always leave you notes –usually you are satisfied with scribbling insults on the black board as answers.” Intrigued, she followed him, up to the slope, back on the path she had taken. “I did not ask you to join me in the middle of the mountains, where I _crashed_.”

He stopped, looking pointedly at her over his shoulder.

“No, you asked me to be at the shed Tuesday morning and you managed to disappear in the meantime. So I thought...” He trailed off, climbing on.

“You could have a look and be the good wizard?” She halted, offended. “You think you’re so tough when you do that.”

He did not acknowledge her, another charming characteristic of his, steadily walking in strides to reach the edge.

“No kidding, your last transmission let us know quite eloquently you had survived, as the parade of profanities recorded can attest. Somebody competent needed to come and get you… Somebody, well, like me. Why not kill two birds with one stone?”

He stopped at the top, his silhouette cut against the sky, looked up and lazily stretched, shoulders free from wariness. “I thought you were less likely to berate me in the middle of the mountains with no ears to listen to your complains about my huge ego and baby face. I brought apple cider.” He looked down at her, a cheeky smile on the lips.

”You had to crash in the middle of nowhere to get to have that date with me…” Three feets under, she stared at him, bewildered, and carried on.

“Art, on that note, I asked you out, to get a proper look at Vertex –she was behaving quite oddly.”

She paused, hand pulling at her reddened earlobe, before hastening and joining him on the slope. From here, she could see her craft, upside down engulfed in water. “Now, obviously, you won’t because she is at the bottom of the pond.”

He scoffed, hands out of the pockets.

“Oh, come on! Cry for help with a kiss? Anyway, you’d never ask for my help. You hate the way I “patch up” my planes.”

“I do.” She amended, eyes taking in the plain before them. “Your methods are far too unorthodox to run the distance -and you will know that once you have as much experience as me.”

“Song, you really are not…” he started, mildly annoyed.

“Don’t. You don’t know anything about me except that you got a glimpse at me on the deck once or twice, and enjoyed what you saw. You never bothered to talk to me as a matter of fact. Our mutual blissful ignorance interspersed with occasional flaming notes worked perfectly well. But…” She pointed an accusative finger at him. “You have a terrible reputation, Doctor, and I know everything about you.”

“Idris has a mouth that would not shut”, he growled, refastening the straps of his bag with a bounce on the spot. He looked like a kid. 

“How many times did I actually check behind you because you messed up completely the commands of one of the pilots’ planes?”

He opened his arms, outraged, and the whining that escaped him nearly elicited a smile from her.

“Those were improvements! If those nincompoops cannot deal with technology…”

“No, they cannot, and that’s the trouble.” She started to lead them down the opposite side of the slope and he followed in lockstep, his hands again shoved in the pockets, with a temper.  “It is hazardous to introduce such piece of equipment you alone tested, without their consent, with only a quick word of explanation as to how those Christmas instruments work.”

“But this is doddle!” His hands were gesticulating under the fabric. He had obviously forgotten about them. How could such a man be a pilot and a soldier, she would never know.

“And I suspect you are a genius and can understand that quickly such intricate commands”, she conceded instead; there was no use doubting Idris on that point. “But they can’t and you are gravely endangering them.”

“No, but you don’t understand! These are necessary, these are essential; we are moving about in a field that could allow so much more. So many things about flying are gruesome and hard, when it is obvious science could bring us so much further! The cold, the stuck command, the altitudes! Don’t you see these are hiccups we could overtake so easily with science…? We could reach the stars!”

“I was warned about your passion for engineering, Doc’.” She shook her head, nearly slipped on the ground and balanced herself on his shoulder. The corner of his eyes was indicating a smug smile contained, and she huffed.

“And I about your sceptic stubbornness, Professor”, he bantered.

She pulled away from him, as he walked further down, head bent.

“It’s River Song to you; I hate that nickname. I do not patronise people.”

His head shot up and she could see his lips puckered. She trotted down to him.

“Well, I love mine and yes, you are always conspiring with Idris, looking very pleased with yourself and snapping at us when we don’t do as you please”, he clarified.

She halted again, hurt, before scurrying to take up with him. They had nearly reached the bottom of the slope.

“Sure, just smirking at the others’ incompetence and silently watching them muddling through, while taking advantage of one’s privileged status in the eyes of the boss is so much more efficient as you well know.”

“I am very smart and no one seems to even try to keep up with me. It’s exhausting.” He claimed, boisterous.

“Just watch your tongue.” She joined him down the slope and flung her forefinger in his face, making him lurch backwards. “I’m still a senior pilot.”

A worried frown seemed to have taken residence on his face, permanently.

“Can you please stop reminding me of how much you know all about the sky and life?”

“Sweetie. Look at you.” She flicked the lapels of his jacket open, passed a finger on the shine of his buttons, poked his arms appreciatively, and looked up at his face, convinced. “You’re young.”

He gulped, visibly, and she chuckled inwardly at the thought of making him uncomfortable. But the uneasiness was quickly cast aside.

“I’m really not, you know.” He answered, mocking. “And as a consequence it doesn’t suit you to complain about your age and all that jazz.”

He seized her hands resting on his chest, turned his back to her and tagged her along. She stumbled forward and cried.

“What are you even doing?”

They were heading to the pond of her demise, and her plane’s resting place, hopping over eddies and metal shards. His strides were long, she fell into step with him quickly. The patter of his feet, the jingle of his paraphernalia, his hair standing atop of his head with the wind, all were a  beguiling distraction for her groundless mind. And his banter.

She really enjoyed sending him those notes. 

“Trying to take a look at the Old Girl”, he cooed. He swung his arms wide before him, gesturing comically at the remains. He had stopped just before the crash landing site, focused on the wrecked plane and her inherent pond.

“She’s obviously dead and buried.” River observed, beside him. She shrugged, letting go of her saddle bag and inviting him to follow her. “Help me retrieve the mail instead, will you? What happened to you up there anyway?”

He gazed absently at the overcast sky, and began unhooking the belts and ropes holding together the hodgepodge he had on the back. She lent him a hand out, smiling broadly at the stuff he had taken with him.

_Casual mountaineer._

“Storm. A bird crashed into me.” His elbow hitched a strap and he struggled before River’s nose, nearly knocking her over. “The TARDIS informed me there was a glitch in the pressure area and random parts of her body could spontaneously leave the nest and only this deserted plain would provide me with the particular landing field likely to honour her divine landing gears…”

Annoyed, she grasped his elbow, holding it still while she was disentangling him from his bag. He wailed.

“That’s more like it”, she sighed, letting him go with a nod, which he gratified with his tongue pulled out. Mollified by her disdain, he went back to the plane, then wrung his neck to squint longingly at a plateau, two miles afar. She craned her neck: on the edge she could make out a blue geometric shape. Part of his plane.

He breathed heavily, looking down before combing his hair back.

“Except she’s really stuck on a platform. I had to climb down to get you.” He confessed, sober.

She bit her bottom lip, weighing his bag, eyes low.

“How did you locate me, Doc?” She inquired, a hint of restraint in the voice. Despite their differences, she wanted him to feel her gratitude for coming and fetching her.

His eyes fell on her, for a second, bemused, before he brightened and chirped back.

“You left a rather impressive trail of fuselage’s debris and cropped bushes.” Slowly, a smile crept on him, starting from his forehead, lighting up the eyes and reaching the mouth. “It took some time to find you. I was aiming for the pond, from the platform.”

She laid the bag on the ground besides hers and stretched out a hand in invitation.

“And I heading for the south.” Conversational was within her reach then. “We were going in opposite directions. We could have walked past each other for days.”

His hand slipped within hers and held quite firmly, as they stepped carefully in the cold water.

“Not necessarily. Do you know you sing, Song?”

Her head spun towards him.

“What?”

He was progressing stealthily down, looking askance as he was speaking. Perusing none too discreetly. She felt fear in his grip, not respect.

“While walking.” She arched an eyebrow and he bent above the water, eyes on the ripples as if admiring his reflection. “Well, not singing really. You make that noise.”

And he began humming gently.

She stopped, dumbfounded and he tugged at her, keeping her aside.

They squelched along shuddering hand in hand for some minutes before finding a path to the plane that would not swallow them as well.

“What noise?” She managed to mutter, between breaths.

He started humming more loudly, with annoyance. She chuckled; she did not hum.

“I followed your trail.”

And she was indeed following his, she kept stopping with each of his remarks and he was continuously dragging her forward, slowly, despite the shallow waters and nearness of the plane.

“Now, that’s creepy.”

He tugged one last time and they leant on the plane, which answered with a low metallic grunt.

 “Professor”, he concluded. ”My affection for you never required flopping into swamp before.”

“Your affection for me is nil and you are perfectly aware of it.” She countered, flopping forward and holding herself up on the tail.

“Are you insinuating I don’t care?” He joined her, extracting from his inner pocket the screwdriver he had always on him. “I really did not have to come here and get you. I’m nobody’s taxi’s service…”

She wordlessly indicated to him the plates to get to the cabin from the back and he obliged her, rambling on.

“Except Mrs. Noble but she pays extremely well, and to be fair I have a blast each time I have to fly her…”

He was talking to himself, gesturing with his screwdriver in one hand, academically, at thin air, water up to mid-thigh, while she was working her upper body in the cabin, taking her feet off the ground to slide halfway in and catch the bag.

“And yeah, Doctor Jones… And Mr. Smith… And Brian…”

As she was about to topple over and come crashing into the submerged cockpit compartment, she felt a hand of her ankle, pulling her out while his voice was rasping.

“Okay, I’m everybody’s taxi service but still, I'm not going to be there to catch you every time you feel like killing yourself.”

Triumphant, she held the bag before her, beaming, and he stilled, an inquiring expression on the face, as if he had not contributed actively to the rescue mission.

“I brought the mail off, all right.”

 

***

 

It was around midday when they set out -drier and grumpier- for the lookout. In a balletic demonstration of flailing limbs, he had endeavoured to explain clearly enough the lookout should be reached after a four hour walk. According to him, Waldo was settled being the highest slope, just before them, hidden from the winds tumbling in this part of the valley. From his perch by the TARDIS’ side, he had glimpsed the landmark flag and mast, indicating the observation point.

“Of course, I landed…” the Doctor began before River shot him a deadly glance. “Of course, I crashed her nearer, so from my landing site, the lookout was much…”

“Look, you want me to thank you for saving me? Sure. But you are not fishing for a pat on the back for coming down your nest to find me. The game’s ‘Where in the name of Pete is River Song’. Not ‘Where’s Waldo’. You can have a chat with Waldo later, focus on saving me.”

They were following the west side of the valley, protected from the wind and whirlwind of snow that kept falling from the highest peak up above. He halted, bringing his elbow behind his head and reclining against the nearest wall, a faraway and excited expression blossoming on the face.

“Say, it has a certain ring to it…”

She caught his ascot, jerked him back on the track, where he stumbled, almost overbalancing and landing on her. He straightened up, puffing and grimacing at her. She walked past the corner and shouted in a clear voice.

“Shut up and walk.”  

 

***

 

The climb was assured. She would not have suspected he was such a steady climber; she was used to such exercise, from her childhood, but Idris had informed her he was a child of the low lands, Britain. His aloofness and clumsiness concealed deft feet and nimble, nimble fingers. He was thoroughly, shamelessly enjoying the ride, despite the cold.  Gloves discarded, he let his palms travel on the surface of the rock, silent, from time to time whipping out and spinning his screwdriver while she watched the waves he traced on the surface.

He bounced, and twirled, and jumped about like a twelve year-old, and once or twice she had to remind him of the long road they had ahead of them. She should have felt strained, but realised such an ardour compelled her to cast a new look on her surroundings. They talked seldom while walking, never while trading their flask or bread.

When they had reached the foot of the mountain, he stopped dead on his track atop a rock and yawned openly. She marvelled at his energy doing so, he seemed of infinite, relentless curiosity and drive. Hand to her, he hoisted her up to his side, curtsying to let her sit at his feet.

She did not question him, just settled and considered their journey from the pond; only a bluish part of it, a blemish drop on a grey scale, was sneaking out from behind the rock face, now completely lit by the last rays of the sun. He was crouching near, head in the bag and she feared he might find a way to step back and fall. His voice rose, muffled, from one of the pockets.

“River Song, can I ask you out on a date?”

A dubious frown had replaced her contemplative glaze.

“Here?”

He popped up from the bag, delighted and dishevelled.

“It’s a romantic place as good as any others.”

She smiled, patiently.

“You are having far too much fun for the situation at hand.“ She repositioned herself on the rock, let a shiver run through her spine and crossed her arms on her chest, set to the faint silage of melted snow they had followed underneath. “What do you have in mind?”

He let out a warm “Haha” and carolled.

“Mostly wild berries and small rodents. But we have apple cider. So, picnic?”

He dived into his bag again, brand new, high class, but hopefully well-furnished in blankets and water. Meticulously, he unfolded a tissue, on which he displayed dried beef and a loaf of bread that he arranged on the surface between them, and cheese that she leapt on before it could touch ground. He grimaced and crawled opposite her, picking a pocket knife and cutting them two slices of bread.

The wind was quieter in this part of the valley though strong enough to let the sky open and pour welcome warmth on them. Their silence was companionable, only disturbed by the satisfied work of teeth on food. They yawned together and they looked at each other with surprise.

He dived, his hands in search of a twig to distract himself. The land was dry and pebbleless.

“Are you married, River?”

“Oh boy, you know the answer to that one.” She surveyed him on the corner of her eyes, feigning interest for the landscape.

He had the decency to pale.

“Why”, she emphasised. “Are you asking?”

“Do you mean why I am asking you that question or why I asked and I am asking you to marry me?”

She waited, cautious, before noting casually.

“Why? It’s not like you are not every bit as selfish as I am.”

He scowled, leant his back against the ground and closed his lids, briefly.

“Tell you something.” She lied down beside him, not daring to fake distraction from his young, now unreadable face. “Once in a blue moon, I met a pilot, John, pretty boy from London. He taught me to fly; brought me here. Did you know he was actually the first to cross the South Atlantic before Gago Coutinho and Sacadura Cabral, direct? But the idiot would not answer the calls, and while he was gently cruising and enjoying the view, they thought he had made a stop halfway. Didn’t record his ground-breaking flight.” 

She felt his body jolting under the repressed snort. Satisfied, she went on with a merry tone.

“He was a bit of a show-off and the first and only time I shared my fears, here’s what he said to me, mimicking Barrymore, but not in his silent days :

‘When you fly, it feels like it will never end. But however hard you try, you can't fly for ever. Everybody knows that everybody dies, and nobody knows it like a pilot. It can get at you. But I do think that all the skies of all the worlds might just turn dark, and not navigable a jot, if you ever, for one moment, accept it. You wrest each journey, each inch of sky from the wind. It’s no victory. Just a slow acceptation of where we’ll all end. So, no hard feelings.’

“Told you, he enjoyed the limelight. He didn’t stick around. He liked me enough to say all that out loud. The sap fell, while ejecting from his plane, landed alive, but too close to a gusher. It was before the preventer was commercialised, of course. His plane ignited the well and caused a humongous explosion. Nothing was left from him. He’d always love a good dramatic exit.”

She paused waiting for a reaction, but found only his steady breath, expectant.

“Just don’t do that to them.” She concluded voice gentle. “Never let them believe you live forever.”

“Now that’s silly”, rang the answer. He had brought his hand to his face and was playing with a strand of his hair. “No one does.”

“No. But for some reasons they believe we do. Just because we survive that fly, doesn’t mean we get through the other.” She dusted off her trousers, annoyed. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“You don't.”

They sat in silence. She was staring at an undefined point situated between his head and a dried up twig on the wall. He was looking at the sky, pondering what her words meant. She could have reached out to him, told him simply: ‘Those are not interdictions, just rules to play by.’ That even would have meant taking a short-cut and putting in jeopardy everything he discovered and liked about her for the past hours.

She followed his gaze to the sky.

“We’d better start again, if we want to find Waldo before dark”, she remarked.

Propped up on his elbow, legs in the air, he giggled and pointed at her.

“You said it!”

She got to her feet, tucking her jacket around her and repressing a smile.

“I know.”

She began tidying up, packing the food and checking the mail bag, which had completely dried up. She could not resist taking a peek and checking if the content was damaged.

“Look, the humidity opened some letters”, she exclaimed, pulling a handful out.

He crouched towards her, alarmed. 

“River, you can’t do things like that.”

“Oh, you’ve gone all strict.” She paused and arched an eyebrow, playing up. “Not that I mind.”

He was trying to catch the parcel in her hands, out of his reach. More and more, she was enjoying his discomfort at being handled so physically by her. It disturbed him, threw him off and kept him from studying her.

“I am not, but this is…”

She escaped him and he fell chin on the ground. She took shelter behind the bag, ignoring his muttering and began sorting the letters. 

“We are probably going to die in there. So, I can do with a bit of outrageous before I die. Don’t worry, I can multi-task.”

He was struck dumb, processing before mouthing her last word, confused.

“I don’t think that word exists.” He offered gingerly.

“Says who?” She shot back and proceeded to take her bags and leave him behind, standing in the middle of the slope, arms dangling gat his side. She had found her pace and was beginning to warm up when she heard his ragged breath and pounding foot.

He had run after her.

_Bless him._

***

 

“Read another one”, he ordered between chuckles.

“I like your voice better”, she teased. ” I remember this technician who used to fly saying that he once had a radio who had the most amazing voice, and he kept losing touch with his airplane, just drifted to the sweet lullaby. He had to change him, though he was a swell kid.”

He rummaged behind her back to replace the letter and find more reading material. He came up with a tightly-knotted parcel. With an impish gleam in the eye, he unfastened the bond, leafed through the letters and picked a fat envelope, all the while still walking a step behind her, trusting her not to let him fall to his death. He unfolded the blue-green papers and skimmed through, before letting out a small hum of satisfaction.

“This fellow actually copied pages and pages of physics because he could not afford to send his pal the book”, he said, shaking the stack of papers.

“I don’t know if I find it completely ridiculous or the most touching proof of friendship. Say, I’ll try, just pick one for me.”

He waved a sheet in her face which she promptly grasped and scanned. She stifled a laugh.

“Do you read Portuguese? I think this one is rather outrageous in its details.”

In a step, he was taking a looking over her shoulder at the letter, arm brushing her without any discomfort, testing her; she sucked in a breath. He grunted reflectively, retrieving his arm without leaving her side. It felt oddly natural, and efficient, which she valued most.

“He may be talking about the preparation of some desserts.” His head was nearly resting on her shoulder, he craned his neck and looked askance at her, teasing. “Hmm. Deserts. Miss it.” She shoved him away with a roll of the eye and he readjusted his rucksack with a sheepish dodging of the head. “Shut up, Doc. I’m making myself hungry.”

“Definitely not the time”, she confirmed with a cluck. She picked another letter from the parcel he was holding. Her feet were starting to hurt badly, not to the point where she was hindered, but wanted to drop everything and slumber. Or swap her feet with rubber.

She knew the reason he had accepted to snoop on the letters with her was her exhaustion at their last stop-over. He was ignoring her, fiddling with a piton. The piton inevitably dropped and tumbled down a few inches under, forcing them to stop and rescue the equipment. Anchored to her hand as a security, he had hung to retrieve the piton, but the moment he lent more of his weigh to her frame, she had faltered; her back was hurting terribly, causing her to pull rigidly on his arm to maintain a comfortable position. He had lifted his gaze to her, puzzled at first, then hurt. Coming up and setting off again, he had refrained from inquiring, letting her to her shame. A few minutes after, he had offered to read the letters with her before it was too dark. 

“Look there, it’s actually a girl asking her boyfriend to marry her. It is rather beautiful”, she exclaimed. “Even if a little convoluted.”

She read a few lines out loud and he gazed at her with curiosity before asking bluntly.

“What, how would you do that?”

“I wouldn’t.” She shot back. “Neither would you.”

He shrugged.

“Probably.” There was snide in his tone; her knowledge of him was grating, she guessed and he had reached the point where he was just trying to unsettle her. Which was hazardous considering what she had on him. “You seem to know me better than I do.”

She hastened her pace, feeling a bitter taste going up to her mouth.

He was a gambler, ready to risk other’s happiness for a moment of pleasure. They are pilots, love you completely and don’t look back. Not that their absence is voluntary.

They are dead.

“It’s just there really is no point in cutting yourself from…” he tried before being interrupted.

“Now, look. You can cry over that blasted latch that won’t open and you’ll hang to that darn lever of yours, wrestling your life and letters to the air. You carry hopes and dreams, you carry physics books and love letters, sure. Just know it takes no god to cross the sky; it takes a man to be replaced by another each time he crashes. When you have a responsibility towards those hopes, you don’t get tangled with people. There is a reason Amelia grounded Rory and why she cradles me in her arms like a mother each time you and I grab our gloves and jackets.”

She found an alien, empowering relief in this downpour spilt on him. He had nagged.

“Not much future in that profession, is it?” She hissed. “You would not ask someone who does not know what you gain from it to stay. No matter how much I care about them, I will always care more about my freedom, about those weights in human hopes. This is my life. And it is yours as well.”

She did not need to turn and witness his expression, the fury and guilt blowing out his pupils. There was one thing he was completely right about: she knew him better than he did. She heard him falling into step behind wordlessly. She swung the bag before her and put the letters away, having neatly rearranged them in the parcel. She allowed him space to mope, hoping the last hour of their journey would not have her call him to order about his life every odd mile.

They trod along, the landscape stretching its dull monochrome.

“Are you cold?” He asked, out of the blue. The temperature had dropped quickly, without the sun falling directly on them; the glare allowed them to progress for a little longer in relative daylight and the Doctor was confident they could reach Waldo before nightfall.

“Silly. Question.” She emphasised.

“You have that face on again. And I never know if I must flee you or wrap you with a blanket.”

Her face must have been a sight because he snorted and nodded silently, tripping over a bush in the process. He landed on his bottom, beside the bush, which seemed to consider him with supreme disdain. She chortled and he made a face at the innocuous plant. A gush of wind passed them and the bush wriggled; the Doctor, trying to get back on his feet, froze, hand suspended in mid-air and blinked at the plant in mock anger.

“Shut up, shrub. Nobody asked you.”

The bush ruffled back. This time, the wind managed to disturb Enzo’s hair as well, lifting a strand atop his head, straight as a pike. She held a hand out to him; he got up to his feet, bent over the bush and frantically wiggled his forefinger before the withered plant.

“I shall require a withdrawal of the insult.” He squinted askance, and hurled to her. “There is nothing more insulting than an insulting bush.”

She widened her eyes at him, hips cocked. She was enjoying this far too much.

“This is actually very, very silly. Awful silly.”

He patted the top of the bush and twittered back.

“It is. But what’s wrong with silly?”

The top of Waldo’s refuge was peeking out from the other side of the mountain.

 

***

 

The view from the ridge was breath-taking, they were on a low edge just at the frontier between Argentina and Chile; Waldo was in station all year long, to watch over the storms and fogs over the east pass. He could see Cerro El Palomo, of pristine white, he could see Santiago’s plains. It was a paradise of sort.

They hurried on the other side, as the wind was threatening to throw them over the edge, back to where they came from. A path of flattened ground, dug into the rock, was leading to a sheltered bay, from which smoke was rising. The lookout at last. The way was marked out with none too finished statues, obviously shaped in locally-made clay and engrossed in various occupations.

They moved on, somewhat intimidated by their alien surroundings. After the nudity and savageness of the journey, they felt oddly unbalanced and scrutinised by the very human creatures. But not completely. They were decked with piece of agricultural equipment.  Far down, a mule bored stiff was eyeing them wryly from behind a wooden cabin.

In less than a mile, they would find shelter and communication. End of their journey.

It may have been relief or exhaustion, he began talking, a little too much, a little too openly about his childhood. Specifically his childhood. She was quiet, aware of what he was hiding from her; a past that Idris had gossiped about, to her only. She felt ashamed of being privy to his secrets. But Idris had given them like an assurance, a seal over River’s own secrets.

Not knowing how or why to respond, she tried, but it was a vain bait and he did not take it.

“I was born in Berlin, you know, on the turn of the century.”

The surprised glance he did not fail to feign gave him away. Despite his aloofness, he had gathered, here and there, hints. His reluctance to dabble in getting to know her was well-founded.  To the extent that, she was almost offended at his trusting her enough to show he knew she was faking.

“You fled before Hitler”, he answered blankly. And she retreated. She was treading on dangerous ground. The thought of him despising her for her origins had never crossed her mind; he would not go there, never. Not with his background. Yet, he could be of that brand of men who would sense that peculiar defect in power control.

Blood on her hands.

“Do you really think it could be that easy?” She heaved a sigh. “Why does anyone leave Germany?”

He slowed down his pace and stopped in the middle of the way, forcing her to retrace her steps to him.

“You sure are a piece of work. I’m a nice guy.” His lips twitched and she ducked her head, out of pity. “Not really a nice guy. Not at all. But I think I can spark off the best in people, and in short length of time. That’s why I don’t believe in not tying oneself. You don’t either. Yet”, he dramatically gestured at her. “For some reasons, you think you chose your state of mind, you did not. Something went off. And you are just risking your life for nothing. You don’t believe in the hopes and dreams and love letters you are carrying. I do, with all my heart. You only cling to the excuse they give you not to care and risk your life at it. How can you hate yourself so?”

 “I never asked you to get close”, she conceded.

He began circling around her, breath hitching in his throat, with each step. His movements grew jerky and slightly wild; she had hurt him, not in his confidence but by his inability to devise her. He stood before her, head tilted, looking at her from behind his brows. His arms were rigid against him, fists clenched and she could perceive the tension in his jaw. He probably despised himself for even letting her deny the truth.

“Extraordinary, neither did I. And surprisingly here we are, closer than any of us could ever imagine.” She heard him mumble.

The shadows were descending on them. He kicked his leg in the air, sending dust billowing about, before putting it back on the ground.

Except he was on the outer brink of the path, overlooking the steep slope, and it was one step out of the way.

For a split second, before he realised his foot was not meeting the earth at the expected altitude, his arm jolted, as if preparing to grab or slap her.

She felt her blood run cold.

He tumbled down in a concert of equipment and cries. On 60 feet. Limp on a few meters before managing to curl up on himself and protect his neck. With a dull thud, he collided with a slope conveniently placed, preventing him to go all the way down. He oscillated between his bag and the bottom of the hill, and stilled, motionless.

She dropped the bags on the path, dashed down towards him, half sliding on her hands and bottom, half jumping. Her speed was dizzying, picking up. She knew she could dive nose first and fall, miss his slope and get smashed in the valley. But she was not thinking properly.

 _What a clumsy ape,_ was all she could mutter, scampering between the ejected pitons and a blue notebook sliding slowly. Her feet landed beside him, the throb of her heart louder. Nearly falling over him with haste, she knelt beside him running a hand through his chest and neck.

“Doctor!” she called and he wailed back making her heart skip a beat. Streaks of orange dust were adorning his head and his torn to pieces outfit was hanging pitiful over his frame. Her hands flied to his face and he was cold, obviously concussed.

“Can you move?”

He was trembling, out of pain or cold. Deadly combination, especially after hours of walking.

“What do you need?” she barked and his eyes squeezed shut.

Climbing up would not be the easiest thing to do, not without a hand. She cried for help; surely Waldo could hear them. But the wind had resumed its howling at them and she cursed their bad luck. Her attention went back to Enzo as she felt the weight of his cheek on her hand; he was losing consciousness.

“You’re not signing off, fellow!”

She lifted him up, flung the bag, straps cut, across her shoulder and stood him up, taking most of his weight on her; a slight boy, and she marvelled at how much the bag had emptied during the fall. Luckily.

“Gotcha”, she whispered to his ear.

But he dangled limp at her sides, bobbing his head, while she was crawling on all fours to hoist them up. Her progression was too slow.

“Well, it’s your funeral”, she growled between grated teeth.

“I’ve been working on it for a while now.” His voice was faint but sent shots of relief across her puzzled mind. “You did an excellent job. Were you made for killing me?”

He shivered violently and she stumbled forward. Her gloves were torn, exposing her palms raw and cut; she winced.

“I’m still at it, Sweetie.” He did not banter back and a gush of wind nearly made her fall, she balanced herself and managed to lose only a few inches. She roared in distress.

“Doctor, listen to me. I can be brave for you, but you have got to tell me how.”

His confident voice startled her.

“What did you do?”

Part of her knew that she would regret it. She also knew, wholly, that anger was a most efficient way to keep him awake. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on his waist.

“I killed a man.”

He did not flinch.

“Idris, once called you…” he said coolly.

“Her little criminal.” She cut off. “That’s me, Melodie Leonides.”

He stiffened and she nearly laughed with relief.

Melodie and Captain Nine. He did know about her. No man in the flying business in this day and age could forget the abhorrent crime of little Melodie.

And to think it was just a game to her.

She could see his Adam apple shift and hear his painful gulping.

“He was a good man.” He spoke, accusatory. “A hero to many.”

His breath on her neck rattled her. She did not know she treasured that much his tolerance.

“And I a child, probably.”

There was no excuse for her crime. She could tell him what had been told before the judge, that she had played with the gas supply, unknowing of its dangerousness, that she had replaced by accident the oxygen with phosgene, ready to be sent to the front. He suffocated in the air.

To her, at the time, he had been nothing but vermin to be terminated. Agent foe.

She could tell him the war; she could tell him her patriotic, stern upbringing.

“I killed a man, escaped the sentence because of my age and my family, just so. I never had witnessed death before; killing was something you gave. But never experienced really. I did not feel different. I just felt his death had made no difference for the war. And decided this was something meaningless.”

 _A bitter, meaningless war does that to you._ She thought killing would level the balance, for her friends’ parents killed and all the horrors her uncle had told her about. And the Doctor understood this perfectly well. She knew that, doing so, she was playing him. And he knew she was.

 “You know I should hate you for this?”

He was suddenly remarkably articulate. She relished in his disgust, she mused, if it meant he had quitted drifting in and out of consciousness.

But disgust was absent from his face, so close to her that she could see the crease and fold on his forehead. He looked a hundred years old, weighed down.  Disgust was directed at himself. She knew he had never been judged, unlike her.

Whether or not she had served time had yet to be seen. But he would dare to question an authority that had condoned a child’s crime.

His head found her nape, in bounces, and the contact filled her with hope. He nuzzled there, feather-light.

“You also know I’m half as rotten as you and that I had my feats in battle with the rebels.”

Their cards were all on the table at last.

“What are you two rambling on about?”

A voice fell from above them, oddly familiar.

River stopped dead on her tracks and looked up, the Doctor dangling and whimpering on her side.

From the path to the lookout, a brown-haired head was blinking at them.

 “Are those more statues?” the Doctor was squinting at the silhouette.

“No, it’s…” She hesitated, but the voice, despite the pitch, was unmistakable. “Waldo.”

“Oh! And here I thought I was hallucinating.” He nodded. “What a nice surprise, statues and shrubberies.” He grabbed without energy the nearest bush and she swatted his hand. “Did this shrub just give me the eye?”

“Now, you’re hallucinating, Sweetie.”

“Warning, rope!” Cried the voice. And River had just enough time to look up and move aside from the rope descending on the slope. She fastened her wounded and the bags, before clutching at the rope and letting herself be guided up, helping with her foot.

As they were tipped over the slope, back on the plateau, River’s eyes followed the rope to mountain boots, red slacks and purple vest, wrapping a petite brunette; a woman.  She was glaring at them, arms crossed, beside a manual winch. She was sporting the compulsory practical haircut and high mountain equipment; short, gamine hair; bright brown eyes; pretty.

Clever, probably, judging by what she had just accomplished.

 

***

 

“Where the hell have you been? I was looking for you on the other side.” Waldo sneered at the door, kicked it open to reveal a vast living room, comfortably arranged considering the altitude. A rustic table, chairs and a bed in a corner. The fire was crackling. Low drawers and solid shelves were piled with books and instruments. A huge trunk in the middle of the room was opened, from which she must have retrieved the rope.

“Idris must have contacted you. You’re Waldo, aren’t you?”

They put Enzo carefully on the ground while the woman named Waldo closed the door and cleared the bed from its heaps of vests.

“Yeah.” She turned to River, a cocky grin on the face. “And Waldo is a woman! Surprised?”

River, crouched up by the Doctor’s side and smoothing his hair, shrugged.

“Just a little bit, but mostly impressed. You are awfully good at disguising you voice.” River looked up at Waldo. “Nobody spotted you before?”

Waldo was dragging the trunk against the wall.

“Been doing that job for a year. Never got any complaint. I get paid, I get to spend quiet and cosy time here. “

“Alone and cold, too”, River added.

“Maybe. I enjoy it. I was raised in a massive orphanage, one in a hundreds of little girls, with their braids and mouths that would not stop talking and dreaming. Nothing but a girl. You feel so small, so insignificant.”

River was taken aback by her staccato speech. She stood up, taking a step closer to the woman.

“Are you always that… “She began, but Waldo cut her off, looking pensively at the ceiling.

“A speck of dust. Fated to become a mother or a servant or a worker, default companion. I want a reason to be insignificant. Like insignificant before the immensity of the world, the Andes. So at the first opportunity, I went away. I fled as far as I could, and because I am clever and a bit wily, I got myself a job at the airway. Only further.”

“Shall we take a look at the injured moaning person on the floor or do you want me to make tea?”

Waldo and River both looked down on the Doctor who was well enough to glower at them from the ground, propped up on one elbow. They moved him to Waldo’s bed and started examining him.

“Pop off you shirt”, Waldo teased and he whimpered some more.

He kicked and smacked their hands, and cursed a lot which led the astounded Waldo to declare that apart from multiple bruises, a few ribs down, and sprained ankles, he was in spiffing form.

River stroked the top of his head, relieved. He was of stronger material than he looked.

“I'm going out in the first round. Ringing any bells?” He gripped his sides. ”Argh! Okay, need something for the pain now. “

Waldo scurried to a drawer from which she retrieved a bottle of scotch and presented it to a rather frustrated Enzo, with a disheartened nod. He gulped it all the same and fell back to the bed, sinking in the woolly blanket, with a moan of satisfaction and discomfort.

“Don’t let him fall asleep”, Waldo warned her from across the other room, transmission cabin from what River could make out.

“I won’t.” She answered loudly. “Will you help us?”

Waldo appeared at the door holding a handset.

“If I pick up that receiver and call them, what happens?”

River sat motionless on the bed, studying Waldo. Of course, Waldo could be in trouble.

“Assistance will come from San Antonio within a few days, hours if the path clears.”

“That would mean people actually meeting me.” The younger woman huffed. “I could get fired.”

“Or they could consider the excellent job you have been doing for months”, River continued. “Idris is not a monster. She might be mad, she might even bite you. But she’ll never take a decision that could endanger her crew and airline. And you are probably the best radio we had in years. It’s still your decision.”

Waldo had swayed to the centre of the room, pulling the cable of the receiver as far as possible. Her eyes were bright with almost terrifying gratitude. River knew only too well what duty could do to a man.

Her cuffs buttons were tiny roses. Waldo was the kind of woman who chose, always.

“It’s my job.” She smiled broadly. “I’ll call Idris and prepare something for you to eat. I’ll take over the watch so you can sleep. I think you’re going to be all right from now on. The air is clear as a bell this side. The other side is a death-trap.”

River covered Enzo’s ears, dropping her voice to a hush; he shook his head, boneless.

“Don’t. I know what you are about to say. Just don’t. He loves the TARDIS more than his life. It’s the only thing he’s got.”

“He will realise sooner or later.” She offered simply and headed for the transmission cabin. She knew. From her observation deck, Waldo had beheld tempests and wrecks. She had caught on the wireless the last call of the moribund and lost; like a lighthouse, she had watched and stayed. And behold again.

River edged closer to Enzo, humming soothingly. His eyes were half closed, a faint gleam between the lashes. He was watching her.

“You would have been the death of me, Professor.”

She silenced him, fingers on the lips.

“Don’t say anything, Doctor.”

“I won’t sleep with my killer at my wake”, he mumbled.

She smiled and picked up a blanket to cover him. He struggled, battling off her hands, stilled when they fell on his neck, skimming and massaging.

His pupils were a bit too dilated and he knew she had noticed.

She kept on touching him.

 

***

 

Waldo was surprisingly absent after dinner; she was having minor troubles contacting San Antonio, or even San Rafael.

The Doctor was complaining a lot; the relief of escaping a painful death was replaced with the grim perspective of having to wait for a plane without proper painkillers. River kept dozing off on the bed, Waldo checking on them from time to time, her brown head and large eyes, coming up from the adjacent room, like a nanny watching over them.

She felt safe, warm, something she had not felt for a very long time.

Late in the night, she was woken up by a slight touch on her nose. She opened her eyes and found Enzo on his comfortable side, his large hands, spared by the fall, hovering over her face. She waited for him to notice her opened eyes but he motioned still. His fingers passed gingerly on her lids, skimming over the cheekbones, tracing the outline of her jaw before stopping just above the lips.

He was reading her face, silently.

“I expected to find her.” He tried calmly. He wasn’t waiting for an answer, convinced she could not provide it.

She knew exactly who he was referring to and complied, aware of her mystery.

”We lived close to the pre-1870 frontier, you know.” She stated absently. “War was teaching us nothing but this: you kill someone to prove a point, that’s how soldiers die. And my point was made -I wanted it to stop. I was not deemed fit for society. My mother sent me away, in an attempt to “cure” me. I was in England until my majority, in an asylum. Doctors studied me, experienced, rewrote my mind. This was the real death. Melodie died in England. I discarded myself.”

He fetched a curl, teased it. She could only make out the ridge of his nose and chin, lit up by the flames. He seemed drawn to her, to the illicit person he had unearthed. She had liked him better when he was silly and rebellious, bantering and probing. Further also.

“You won’t find her. I don’t want you to find her.” She whispered and fled outside.

Form the corner of her eyes, she caught him rubbing his face and dropping on the back.

Outside, on a little bench, Waldo was smoking. She turned her head to River, frowned at her frilly outfit and let her eyes fall to the space beside her.

River hugged herself, jogging and collapsing on the bench.

“That was probably the most fun I’ve had in years. Idris is a dame if I’ve ever seen one. Gee, she’s quite something. I bet she’s the real McCoy.”

“She kept you.”

“I think. With a lot of howling on a certain Amelia’s part. And Rory made coffee to calm everybody. Apparently. They were really lenient after I told them you were safe and all that was left for you was a gentle walk down the landing field. With the help of Carmen, she really needs exercise, you know, spends her time napping and glaring at my sculpture when she does not rampage through my vegetables.”

Waldo turned to River.

“I like them a lot. They are. I don’t know… like family. You must love them very much.”

River did not answer and Waldo nudged her.

“Don’t you?” Her voice expressed a panic familiar to children raised in orphanage. She wanted to know what a family felt like.

“I live for the days when I fly”, River answered, her own voice unknown to her. “But I know that every time I do, the ones I care about will be one step further away. You change after a while because the scripted dreams and hopes you carry are bigger than you, but it has a cost, a human cost, so don’t stay, don’t get attached.”

Waldo swallowed, suddenly nervous and River was reminded of the fact the girl exiled herself for similar reasons. Still she retained an enthusiasm very much her own. Contrary to River, Waldo saw a lot of future in herself.

River slumped further and let her head fall back to the wooden bench. She was keeping something at arm’s length. Something terrible and consuming she needed to spit out. Something she had fled inside the shelter.

“Soon, you’re no human at all. You are humanity, a carrier of hopes. But nothing human left. You’re a machine flying a machine. And that’s how it should be.”

She paused. She felt a hand on her elbow, gently pulling, encouraging.

“But I know the day is coming when I'll look into that woman's eyes, my reflection, and I won't have the faintest idea of what she is. And I think it's going to kill me.”

The roof was drawing a straight, uncanny curtain above her head and by contrast the night was bright as day. Full of stars. You could almost stretch a hand and pick one.

“Pilots are crazy, I’ve always thought.” Waldo tentatively said. “But I also believe they are rushing to the coast to find their ladies. That this is worth doing stupid things and risking one’s life.”

River grimaced, raising her head.

“That is a remarkably romantic view on a pilot’s life.”

Waldo bent and stubbed out her cigarette on the ground, flicking her hair back as she sat up.

“Maybe. Then again you are talking to a woman who exiled herself in the Andes and faked a gender for twelve months and I think I just became romantically involved with one of my bosses who lives miles and mountains away from here.”

She looked askance at her.

“Am I shocking you?”

River chuckled.

“Honey, I was born in Berlin.”

They eventually tip-toed back inside, checking on Enzo and settling across the room in a sunken receptacle looking vaguely like a sofa.

 

***

 

The morning was well begun when she woke up. Her first glance was for the Doctor who was idly exploring the content of a box Waldo had certainly dragged to him. Refusing to deal with him, she got up, swayed on her feet, before stumbling to the transmission cabin to find Waldo. It was empty, save for the cables, panels and charts necessary. And a mirror. 

She caught her expression beyond the eaten surface. Her hair sprung out against the dim light, billowing from the tail she sported on flight. She looked like a mad woman.

Worse, she looked like the mad woman she had always feared to see and realised she had always seen in there. Her eyes were glued to the face, the jacket, the slacks and dirtied shoes of a phantom she thought she had abandoned years ago in an asylum across the Atlantic. She had never left her straightjacket. She had never left the cobbled streets of her childhood where she had learned, aghast, how a man in an airplane always comes down. She had never left the mulled refectory and the lifeless nanny.

Her upbringing and life so far was a long apprenticeship of indifference. She had said, hours ago, out of decency, John had taught her to fly, when she really would have wanted to say ‘taught her to love’.

John had set the last rung to her learning; before she flew off. Offering her a reason not to love, redirecting this emptiness toward a mission, essential and vain. Carrying letters, for twenty years or so. So many of them. Truth is singular. Lies are words, words, words, had said an assassin she met in Lima.

She had constructed a web of them, about the Captain, about John, about her duty in the end.

She was like a drop following the lines, fated to crash.

River had exhausted her life. Nothing crazy left for her, but to die while performing her duty.

 

***

 

River stepped inside, having taken advantage of the basin outside to freshen up, only to find Doc posing on the bed, dressed in an oversized tailored suit, cuffs and bow tie smudged with dust.

“Where on earth did you…”

“You really must ask Clara about it. Do you know her name’s Clara. Really lovely. She’s really Clara Oswin Oswald. Chose Walso because…” He jabbered with the letters before chuckling. “Waldo is snow.”

She was not paying attention, ogling his _saut-de-lit_ with astonishment.

“I thought you were dying and you stopped to change? “

“Oh, you should always waste time when you don't have any.” He clacked and waved his hand limply. “Time is not the boss of you.”

He crooked a finger at her, and she wavered before reaching him, deeming his expression harmless enough.

“I’m crippled.” He observed simply. “Still got ears and not senile yet. I know this is a vacuum of winds there. I noticed while crashing. There is no way to recover her but by foot. And this is not exactly New York. No one will accept to go get her. Don’t sugarcoat it, will you?”

He was waiting for her to leave, but she stepped closer and bent over the bed, her face just above his. His fists partially furled, like a new born and he opened wide eyes.  

“ About that…” She murmured. “Landing is impossible. But taking off, it could be done.”

He bounced up on his elbows, alarmed, nearly bumping her nose.

“This is almost completely impossible.”

“Loving the almost”, she purred. Here it was, her crazy thing.

He sat up on the bed, completely oblivious to the supposedly broken ribs and found his face inches from her.

“River!”

“But I could do it, I am not half bad at engineering.” She remarked, a hint of pride in the voice.  “Give me a day; I will get her back in the air.”

He flailed and stuttered.

“Even if you could reach, fix and refuel her properly, you would still have to take off from that darndest spot.”

She straightened up, combing her hair back from her face, eyes still set on him, and crossed her arms on her chest.

“Exactly. Darndest as in high. I could let her fall to gather impetus and just soar.”

“Are you insane?” He cried his disbelief, but excitement was rising his chest fully, not impaired by the fractures any more. “Did you see the configuration of the site?”

“Yes, and this is exactly how I intend to take off. Using that damn configuration, with its platforms and chasms.”

She had started gathering the remains of his bag, selecting functioning climbing material and a warm enough outfit.

Waldo’s head briefly popped up from the other room, a silly grin on the face.

“You can borrow my shoes.”

“Thank you, darling.” She was stuffing her bag with her equipment and water, when she heard a muffled clutter of wood and turned just in time to catch the Doctor who had stumbled and limped straight to her arms, holding up his favourite tool.

“Your screwdriver…” She began, unsure.

“Don’t worry, my body’s not cold yet. Just a loan.” His eyes were shining, despite the pained breathes escaping his lips. But the exhilaration was the one she witnessed so many times just before his flights in Patagonia. He was talking to her face, almost tenderly, with a joy and confidence complete. “River, just be careful.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He hailed her, hands on the small of her back, on her greasy, dusty clothes.

“I trust you completely to bring her home, will you?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth and took the screwdriver.

 

***

 

Her muscles were sore and she probably had not slept enough for the four hours she had ahead of her before finding the TARDIS. Waldo had led her to a way that would apparently let her win some time and effort. But it was obvious the younger woman was an experienced mountaineer and that her idea of mild exercise might not be River’s.

But her body was tingling with an energy new and intoxicating. She felt like bursting stars were escaping her mouth each time she was taking a deep breath. Only then, she began to notice her body adjusting to the altitude, she felt better, she felt carried and grounded. She, a pilot.

The journey was long, demanding. She needed that exhaustion, that pulling out of herself to think. To find herself, and Enzo for that matter, in the cluster of thoughts that had formed beneath her skull. Out of the fog, she found the valley of their journey to be a rather lovely setting. If one tastes rocks and nothing else. 

She was beginning to like it. It had something to do with their stillness and the secret beneath their dust. Old, they kept it, not locked, but on their face, for everybody to read.

It would take time and a little more patience than she was capable of, yet she could find the strength to dig and learn to decipher, the strands of life she had left hanging. On a German’s street, in a white corridor, cottoned up in a path of the Andes.

The air was remarkably clear and pure, the sun a gentle caress. It was not cold. Rather than risking climbing the west wall, she chose to take the long way to the plateau and walk for another hour. When at last she reached the summit, she was struck by the sight of the TARDIS, glistening under the sun and waiting for her. She had caught glimpse of her at the airport, of course, sometimes had slipped past the Doctor’s attention to admire her. To see her in broad daylight, smudged with dirt and clad in ice was entirely different.

She took a tour of the plane, checking the damages, surmised the valley below, finally slipped inside the ship with her bag. She let out a whistle; she certainly hadn’t expected his cockpit to be so colourful. Each button, and dial, and gauge was of a different tint. Blues mostly, but orange and pink also. 

With a smirk, she flicked the power on, fiddled with the frequency and picked up the receiver.

 “Is that the bigger on the inside airplane?”

A warm, overenthusiastic “Riiivah” answered her and she rolled her eyes at the thought of him waiting by the radio for her to reach the plane.

“Your plane has not landed yet?”

He harrumphed at the other end of the line.

“Those idiots! They were grounded for hours because of a storm from the sea. No TARDIS indeed.” He followed up with a proud outburst. “She doesn’t look much. But she’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see.  She’ll always take you where you need to be… Now do you see that part of the plane you must manage to fix the cooling system, and the landing gears. But of course, the landing gears are gone, I checked, so you’ll probably have just one crash landing in her. Not a problem of course, she does that perfectly. But it also means you won’t be able to pick me up and will fly directly to San Rafael, while I’ll be in San Antonio and it’s awful far…”

“Shut up!” She merrily shouted, before signing off and sauntering out of the plane, tools in hand.

She had always liked the technical side of her job, the delicate unscrewing and minute cleaning of pieces. Clearing her plane off its dust, she had often felt a gatherer of climates and skies remains.

She kept some sample in tiny bottle she would labelled ‘Paris-Dakar’, ‘Lima- La Paz’, ‘San Antonio-Bahia Bianca’. But Vertex had sunk and she wondered if the Doctor would let her collect this dust.

And label it ‘ _Mellonta tauta’_.

She sung Cole Porter while working and when she jumped back to her seat, feeling almost home in the bizarre interior, she was humming Rose and Fisher’s 1926 hit ‘If all the stars were pretty babies.’

“Very funny.” He sneered from across the line. “Now, there's no way up, no way back, no way out. Of course, you have your brilliant, tremendously dangerous idea.”

“What do you want to do about it? No Potez in my hand right now!”

In the background she could hear Waldo shouting.

”Go ahead Song! Could you two stick to protocol, please? I could get myself fired… Again. You’re clear. Let her go!”

And she put her weight on the window, pushing. The TARDIS obediently balanced and tipped over nose first in the valley.

“Here she comes!”

She kept pulling her up, allowing her to bounce on lower plateaus. Each bounce sent electric shots through her spine and forearm. The plane was behaving superbly, leaping with perfect speed when she reached the last plateau and finally gliding on her own.

“Oh, you beauty!” She cried. “Your spoilers are fantastic. The lift is just dandy.”

“Told you!”

She soared above the valley, enjoying the plane’s impressive rate of climb.

“How come I never was offered to fly such a plane?”

“Keep it south and you’re good, till 19,000 at least”, sing-sang Waldo, from afar.

“Well, curb your enthusiasm, River.” The Doctor laughed. “Remember that stupid installation you were howling about; how awful and impractical it was? Well, you have a perfectly sane specimen of it on your right, the golden joystick, automatic pressure control. You will easily climb 300m in a jiffy. And I advise you to pull it and cling to your seat now if you want to be alive enough to be present at that date you owe me. I might have some letters I want to read out loud to you- and others silently.”

The TARDIS whirred beneath her and River roared in response.

“You son of a gun! I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

 

 


End file.
